


Casual Affair

by leici



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 22:15:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2245242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leici/pseuds/leici
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris Pronger deals with the game seven loss to Carolina, and the deterioration of his personal life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Casual Affair

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe I'm writing about Chris Pronger. But apparently I find his request for a trade not only irritating, but also intriguing. In addition to the normal "This is All Fiction" disclaimer, I add the following: I have no idea where Chris lived in Edmonton, what kind of car he drives, when (if at all) Lauren actually went back to Saint Louis, the status of Michael and Krisin Peca's living situation, et cetera along the same vein. I don't actually know anything other than a pair of matching rumours that both Kristin Peca and Lauren Pronger disliked living in Edmonton so much that their husbands were looking to be traded/picked up elsewhere. Another note: this story was written while Michael was still unsigned, and the ending is likewise set before Michael ended up being picked up by Toronto (and thus not actually getting to play a game against Anaheim during the 2006-2007 season).
> 
> The title has sort of a double meaning here. There's obviously the blunt use, speaking in terms of the affair Chris is having with Michael. Alternately, it's borrowing from the song of the same title by Tonic. I liked the way the lyrics (particularly the ones I'm including) suggest a feeling of being bought, and being loved for something completely outside your true self. I'm fairly certain the song is about being a rock star, but really, the sentiment is probably shared by most people that live in the limelight.
> 
> I wrote this way, way back right when Chris' trade went through to Anaheim in the summer of 2006.
> 
> Written November 2007.

_I said I'm not afraid of change  
I'm not afraid to lose  
They say it's all about the sacrifice  
And the weapons you choose_  
  
 _Like I said I'm not one for violence  
But it keeps me hangin' on_  
  
 _It's a casual affair  
When everybody loves you  
Oh they'll pay top dollar  
Make you wear the dog collar  
When everybody loves you_  
  
On June 21, 2006, there was a parade in downtown Raleigh. Streets were lined with screaming South Eastern fans, people who probably didn't care one way or the other about hockey until 1997. Hell, people who probably didn't give a shit about hockey until the Eastern Conference Finals. In North Carolina, there was celebrating.  
  
On June 21, 2006, in Edmonton, there was silence.  
  
When their plane touched down in the cool morning air on June 20, the Oilers quietly went their separate ways. Laden with luggage and heavy hearts, playoff beards shaved solemnly in their own tiny, hotel room sinks, they looked like an entirely different team as they debarked. Some had their families for comfort, wives and children who had just themselves returned from the other side of the continent. Some had friends, parents, siblings waiting on the tarmac, offering condolences and warm hugs.  
  
Chris Pronger had a curt voicemail message. He wouldn't have a welcoming committee at Edmonton International.  
  
There was a small cluster of Oilers Faithful there, showing their undying support. Chris waved, smiled, shook their hands. But in his head he couldn't help but think how much he hated these people. Each and every one of them. He hated them for trying to make him feel better, for reminding him what a disappointment their team was, that  _he_ was, for being citizens of Edmonton.  
  
At home - or, rather, the place where he lived - he didn't unpack his suitcase. He left it in the back of his car and went straight for the liquor cabinet. Sure, drinking wasn't a way to solve problems, but at this point he didn't care so much about what was appropriate. For weeks, he and the boys had been battling closer and closer to the pinnacle of their season. They beat all odds, an eighth place team coming out of nowhere and dropping the winners of the President's Trophy, knocking out the hard fighting Sharks of San Jose, quickly dispatching the not-so-Mighty Ducks of Anaheim to become Western Conference champions. The words "Cinderella Story" were being bandied about in the media and the Oilers were quickly made the sweethearts of the Stanley Cup Finals. They were heros for the entire country of Canada, everyone's best hope to finally bring the Cup home to its native land.  
  
Seven games. No one who saw game one would have expected so much from them, an enormous Dwayne Roloson shaped hole in net. But Jussi Markkanen had come up and stood tall, each player gave his all, and on the nineteenth of June, they stood to make history and return to Alberta as Gods.  
  
Leading up to that, each game should have added excitement, drive, hunger. Each win was supposed to be exalting, each loss cushioned by the knowledge that it wasn't over yet. But once the buzz wore off, when the jerseys were shed and he had the arena in his rearview, Chris was faced with nothing more than an empty house and the hollow feeling of being alone.  
  
Maybe it would have been easier if they'd done what they were supposed to do. If they'd rolled over and died, picked off by the dominating Detroit Red Wings, finishing the season in April with their tails tucked between their legs. He would have packed his things and gone back to Saint Louis, tried to forget about all the ways things had gone wrong. But they kept winning, and each night the loneliness grew more suffocating. It hurt not having someone to be there for him when they lost, but the sting was even worse when he had no one to share in the celebration of victory.  
  
How things developed the way they did was really a mystery, even to the people involved. Somehow, without ever having talked about it, Michael Peca became a mid-season replacement.  
  
It all started with car trouble. Chris' SUV was idling funny, he had to leave it at the shop for several days, would Michael mind giving him a ride to practices and games for a while? Of course Michael agreed, and soon their carpooling was more about a developing symbiosis than necessity. Michael's wife Kristin was having similar trouble getting comfortable in this new city and was living both in Buffalo and Edmonton, flying back and forth with their daughter and son.  
  
Chris and Michael eased each other's loneliness, became staple parts of each other's lives. It wasn't really all that surprising when Chris kissed Michael one evening, half a dozen beers into the night. Chris had been apologetic, blaming months without physical contact with his wife. And then Michael shut him up by kissing him back.  
  
They were blunt about the fact that they were having an affair. Neither one of them sugar coated it, and while they each had reasoning as to why it was going on, neither one of them tried to justify it, either. They weren't in love, they didn't plan to leave their wives or even allow the indiscretion to continue, once the season was over. They were fulfilling a need, soothing an ache, making their lives a little better for the moment.  
  
And, aside from an unspoken grey area, they were both straight. Neither had ever been intimate with another man before each other, neither were particularly excited by the fact that they were both men, engaging in things the way they were. But it felt nice to have another human being to touch, be touched by, to have someone's lips on their own. They trusted each other, shared their bodies and their mouths in whatever ways they dared. It was a secret they'd both take to their graves.  
  
Things were noticeably sidelined when the playoffs picked up. Kristin was around more now and, it seemed, Lauren was around less. Chris' wife not only made herself scarce, but took the couple's sons with her, leaving her husband to feel abandoned. It wasn't a new sensation, but this time, his fallback was otherwise preoccupied as well. Each passing day was harder to face, every night of sleeping alone seeming to grow colder. Bitterness was creeping in, building on a foundation of depression and frustration. He needed something to blame, someone that wasn't himself or his jilted wife. Eventually, all culpability landed on the shoulders of the province of Alberta, and the city of Edmonton.  
  
Days after losing the Stanley Cup to a bunch of rednecks, Chris hadn't left his house, hadn't unpacked, hadn't answered a single phone call. He was wallowing, but he supposed he was allowed that, considering the circumstances. And, in the mire of greasy delivery food and hard alcohol, he'd eventually come to the conclusion that there was only one way to solve his problems.  
  
A plan was set in motion. His family was due to go on a lengthy vacation to Mexico, and while he was there, a resolution would be made without him. He needed to distance himself, to keep it all - the city, the fans, his teammates, coaches, colleagues, and friends - out of sight, and out of mind. Having to face any of these people, to look them in the eye and tell them what needed to be done, he would never be able to go through with it.  
  
Just a day before he was set to fly to Saint Louis and rendezvous with his wife and children, someone rang his doorbell. He hadn't ordered anything to be delivered, and so he made no attempt to even check to see who might be there on his doorstep. But whoever it was rang the bell again, and then knocked. And knocked again. It was mostly out of annoyance that Chris finally got up off his couch and wrenched the door open, ready to give his obnoxious visitor a piece of his mind. Seeing Michael on his stoop caused every harsh word on his tongue to be jammed abruptly back down his throat. But he digested the shock quickly and squared his shoulders, ready to do what had to be done.  
  
"What the fuck do you want?"  
  
Michael had the grace (or perhaps the preparation) to not look hurt at the tone of Chris' greeting. "Well, hello to you too."  
  
Chris sighed, and shook his head, fingers digging into the back of his front door where he gripped it hard. "Look, I don't wanna talk to anyone right now."  
  
"Yeah, I figured. Since you haven't answered your phone for a week."  
  
"So take a hint," Chris bit back, moving to shut the door in Michael's face. But Michael was prepared for that too, and he caught it with the flat of his palm.  
  
"Just let me in, will ya?"  
  
"No." Chris shoved at the door, but Michael had braced himself and continued to hold it open. "Get the fuck off my porch, Peca."  
  
"No," Michael echoed. "I'm not going anywhere until you talk to me."  
  
"I've got nothing to say to you."  
  
"Well, I've got something to say to you. Which you'd know if you'd listened to any of the fucking messages I've left you. Now, open the goddamned door, Chris."  
  
Chris knew he could shut the door. He had both a height and weight advantage here, and all he needed to do was enforce some leverage to get the door closed. Hell, he could have shut it back at the beginning of the conversation, cut Michael off, gone back to his liquor and his bad daytime television and forgot about everything until he was well on his way out of there. But something was stopping him. And that same something was now letting up, backing off, and allowing Michael Peca into his house.  
  
Michael wandered into Chris' living room like he owned the place, leaving Chris to lock the front door. He was surveying the damage to the coffee table when Chris joined him.  
  
"Jesus. Have you been drinking since we got back?"  
  
"So what if I have?" Chris made a show of reaching past Michael to pick up his scotch, downing the dregs from his glass. "Season's over."  
  
"Is Lauren here?"  
  
Chris' laugh was harsh next to Michael's ear. "Are you kidding me? She wasn't here when she had a reason to be. Why would she be here now?"  
  
Michael turned around, looking affronted on Chris' behalf. "She went back to Saint Louis  _already_?"  
  
"Already? She fucking flew there from Raleigh." Chris set the tumbler back down on the coffee table with a heavy thunk. "I'm pretty sure she would have even if we'd won the fucking game."  
  
Michael looked like he wanted to say something, but he couldn't seem to find the words. Instead he shook his head silently.  
  
Chris, on the other hand, was starting to get impatient. "Look, I let you in so you could tell me whatever you're so anxious to tell me. Not so you could make commentary on my coping mechanisms."  
  
Michael's expression shifted and he looked a little guilty. "I didn't really have anything I wanted to tell you. I just said that so you'd let me in."  
  
Chris closed his eyes for a second, irritation welling up inside him. His voice was thin and strained when he replied. "What the hell do you want Michael, huh?"  
  
"I was worried about you, okay? I know I'm being paranoid and stupid, but I just wanted to make sure you were all right."  
  
"Well, take a look. I'm fine. Now, would you fuck off please?"  
  
This time, Michael couldn't manage to sideline the little flash of pain that crossed his eyes. His tone, however, was more properly masked. "Why are you in such a hurry to get rid of me?"  
  
"I just don't feel like dealing with anyone. That's it, okay? I want to wallow in self pity alone."  
  
"Okay, okay, I get it." Michael turned quick on his heel and headed to the front door. He turned when he reached it, lips parted like he was going to say something. But he apparently decided against it, facing the door again and pulling it open.  
  
This was it. It was almost over. Ten seconds later, Michael Peca would be out of his house and out of his life forever. He would never have to look into those judgmental eyes ever again. Eyes that made him remember everything that was wrong with his life, that burned every adulterous moment into his memory. Eyes that brought back that heavy feeling of loss, of disappointment, of failure. Those pathetically imploring eyes.  
  
Gentle, caring, soul-deep, gorgeous brown eyes.  
  
He wasn't in control of his hand as he caught Michael by the upper arm just as he passed through the doorway. And he definitely wasn't the one that retracted the muscles to bend his arm, drawing Michael back inside. Somehow his fingers tangled themselves in waves of silky, brunette hair of their own volition, and his body seemed to make the decision to kiss Michael full on the mouth without running the idea past his brain. Then, finally, his mouth resolutely refused to listen to his protests as his tongue curled out against his will, sealing the deal.  
  
At that point there was no further intervention, from either Michael or Chris' brain. The door was shut again, Michael still on the inside, and it wasn't long before Michael was shirtless and pressed between Chris' body and his rumpled, unmade bed. There hadn't been any words between them, mostly because Chris refused to disengage from Michael's mouth. He kissed Michael like he was drawing all his strength from that connection, like breaking it would send everything crashing down. Heat was surging up inside him like a tidal wave, ready to wash him out to sea, and he welcomed it, the oblivion. Michael's ribs dug into his own and he thrust down against every part that made this person a man, reveling for the first time in how much it didn't feel like  _her_. He caught up Michael's arms and held them down hard, shoving them above his head and making him struggle, enjoying the feeling of the body arching beneath him, the pull of powerful arms, the sting of teeth against his tongue.  
  
Finally, he released Michael's mouth, his lips landing at the side of his throat instead. Michael didn't use the opportunity to speak, only to breathe as he continued to fight against Chris' huge, heavy hands. This was what they both wanted, what they both needed, and it was only verified as Chris' body shifted to allow him to suck at the hollow between Michael's collarbones, Michael's thick erection pressing into Chris' stomach. Michael managed to wrest one arm free, immediately grabbing Chris' hair and yanking his mouth away. Chris' fingers dug into the soft flesh at the inside of Michael's other upper arm and Michael grunted, the sound jolting through Chris like an electric current. Michael tried to shift his weight to get Chris off him, tugging Chris' head with a fistful of his hair. The balance tipped for a second and they grappled, arms coming free to both push and pull. It was almost like a mockery of an on ice fight, particularly when Michael got ahold of Chris' shirt and pulled it over his head, trapping his arms a bit as the fabric tangled between them. This ended the fight and, finally, the silence between them.  
  
"I'm getting too old for this shit," Michael said, a little breathless as Chris moved to dispose of his t-shirt.  
  
"You're gonna have to be more specific," Chris replied, moving back into position between Michael's thighs.  
  
"Take your pick." Michael pressed his shoulders into the mattress, as if he was trying to move away. "Fighting, losing, fucking around on my wife..."  
  
Chris' voice was rough, and deeper than usual. "Tell me you don't want me to fuck you, and we can take care of that last one right now."  
  
Michael opened his mouth to respond when Chris bucked forward, grinding their cocks together through their jeans. "Fucker."  
  
"You know it." Chris' hands anchored themselves on Michael's hips and he rocked forward again, making Michael groan. He kissed his way down the side of Michael's neck to his shoulder, biting the thin skin that stretched over the ball of the joint, making his mark for the last time. Things started speeding up again and Michael's fingers curled against the bunching muscles in Chris' back, lifting his hips as Chris unzipped and unbuttoned, tugging jeans down to bare him completely.  
  
Then Chris made himself naked too, and they were pressed together chest to thigh, skin to skin. Lost in Michael's kiss, the raw realization that this was  _the last time_  pushed up into the back of Chris' mind, and it suddenly made his chest ache. His mouth pressed down and he forced himself to take note of the way it felt, remember the pleasant burn of Michael's ever present five o'clock shadow against his chin, commit the taste of the kiss to memory. Michael's tongue licked at the back of his teeth and he shivered, feeling it as if for the first time. The smell of them together filled his sinuses and he breathed deep, taking in as much as his lungs would hold. One of his hands traced down Michael's body, brushing over the outside of his upper leg, stroking and massaging the skin, feeling the texture of the hair there. He'd never thought about it, never wanted to, but now it was important that he knew what that sensation was like.  
  
Michael brought him back to Earth when he nudged Chris out of the kiss, panting softly from lack of air. A few inches of space opened up between them and Chris got locked in a gaze, trapped by those eyes, black now and intense. The feeling in his chest was back, like his ribs were collapsing from some invisible pressure, and he barely swallowed a sound of pain. He moved his hips then, to distract them both, and Michael shut his eyes, severing the connection. He closed his eyes as well, sucking a deep breath through his nose and raising himself higher on his arms, thrusting forward and finding their rhythm, the one they'd established months ago when they'd first started this with each other.  
  
It wasn't real sex, as far as the literal definition. It never had been. And even though size and proportion tended to dictate their positioning, neither one of them were at a place where they felt they were giving something up. At the same time, there was always the feeling that something was missing, the actuality of being with someone this way, becoming part of them. It stung more than usual this time, and Chris could feel it all the way down his spine, the way it  _lacked_  in something. He almost wanted to push past that barrier, ask Michael for his permission to cross that line, beg him if it was necessary. The words were on his lips, but he refused to give them the air they needed to take flight. He couldn't ask for that, not now.  
  
But it seemed that maybe Michael was feeling it too, because his hips snapped upward and he wailed softly, a whining sort of sound, and whimpered a plea. "Chris... Chris, fuck me..."  
  
Something splintered inside Chris' mind and he faltered, nearly losing his balance. The bed shuddered with the jolt of his body to right itself and Michael's eyes opened, pupils contracting. The thought, the mere idea of doing  _that_ , of actually doing it, made Chris' insides go tight in the most delightful way. At the same time, a griping panic stole through him. Leaning down on one elbow, Chris tried to regain control of himself, ignoring the hard stare from the man below him.  
  
Chris often forgot, because of his size and his demeanor, that Michael was a strong guy. He had a lot of power coiled up inside his compact body, and even though he appeared unassuming, he was hard to knock off his feet. He knew it was possible, but it still caught Chris completely by surprise when Michael made a move, tipping him sideways on the bed, and then quickly onto his back as Michael overtook him. Pinned down with Michael's thighs on either side of his hips, he was forced to look up at him from a more submissive position. He was totally unsure about where things were going, what Michael had planned, until he felt talented fingers curl around him, stroking him languidly from base to tip.  
  
This wasn't the first time he'd gotten a hand job from Michael, but he was sure it was the last. And so he paid attention this time, real attention, to the way Michael's face looked, concentrating and watching both, to the feeling of Michael's fingertips and the way Michael twisted his wrist as he stroked. In this position, it was really an awful lot like Michael was jerking himself off, and Chris let himself consider that, too. But Michael's expression was too calm, and Chris reached forward, catching Michael's erection in his palm and pressing it flat against his abdomen, trapping it under the heal of his hand. Michael gasped and made eye contact with Chris, the motion of his arm stilling just for a second before resuming its task. And then Chris began rubbing as well, just at the base of Michael's dick, but it had the desired effect. Michael caught his lower lip between his teeth and his eyelids fluttered, his hand speeding its movement over Chris' cock, leaning into the touch against him. This was more like it.  
  
After weeks of this, nights spent together being intimate in this way, it was odd to finally allow himself to think about who this was, doing this with him. He always knew it was Michael, his teammate, but he never really linked the two. There was Michael and there was sex, but with his eyes closed, it never had to be sex  _with_  Michael. But now, for some reason, it seemed important that he knew everything about this moment, what it looked like, what _he_  looked like. Michael's face, caught up in pleasure, was something he'd never seen, but that he didn't want to forget. And so he watched, stared hard as a faint sheen of sweat began collecting on Michael's forehead, at the crease of his elbow, his arm working faster. And, even though he could feel the result of that motion, Chris seemed even more turned on by imagining Michael doing that to himself.  
  
He curved his fingers against Michael's belly, taking his erection into his hand, stroking as best he could from his prone position. And Michael moaned, head falling back, letting himself revel in the reciprocation a little before concentrating again. Michael was losing the battle quickly, mewling and arching even as his fist moved faster and with more purpose. He leaned forward slightly, his free hand clutching hard at Chris' hip, fingernails biting the skin. His head dipped a little and he opened his eyes, looking down between them, watching. Half a second later, body shaking, he came, spilling hotly over Chris' fingers and tossing his head back, his own grip tightening. So close himself, Chris reached out with his free hand and grabbed Michael's wrist, holding his hand steady as he thrust up into the tight curl of Michael's fingers. It wasn't long before it was over, his own semen commingling with Michael's on his belly.  
  
It was long minutes later before either one of them spoke, laying side by side in Chris' bed, but not touching. There was something heavy in the air, besides the smell of sex. Something that had never been there before. It was over now, and they both knew it.  
  
"Do you think she knows how miserable she's making you?"  
  
Michael's voice sounded cold and distant, and it made Chris feel uncomfortable. "I don't know," he answered numbly. "Maybe. Or maybe she does, but she just doesn't care."  
  
"It's gonna be a really long three years, if it keeps up like this."  
  
"Four," Chris corrected. "I've got four more years on my contract."  
  
"Jesus..." Michael shifted, taking a breath. "That's a long time for her to keep this up."  
  
"She won't," Chris said, sighing. He was remembering why he didn't want to see anyone before he left town.  
  
"You think she'll give in and just move up here?"  
  
Chris closed his eyes. "No. I don't. I think she'll leave me." He paused for a long second, finding the courage to voice his fears. "She'll leave me. And she'll take the boys with her."  
  
Michael winced. He had his own kids, his own prospect of a broken home. "You think... You really think she'd do that?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
The room went silent again for a long time, filled with nothing but the sounds of their breathing. Chris thought maybe Michael had fallen asleep until he finally spoke again. "What are you going to do?"  
  
"It's done," Chris answered curtly. "As soon as I leave tomorrow."  
  
Michael sat up a bit, leaning on his elbow. "What is?"  
  
"I'm asking for a trade." He felt the nasty feeling of guilt already working its way up the back of this throat.  
  
"A trade?" Michael definitely wasn't expecting that. "To where?"  
  
"To anywhere. Just out of Edmonton."  
  
"Does Kevin know?"  
  
"He'll know soon enough." Chris sat up himself, swallowing hard to force the heaviness back down.  
  
Michael sat up the rest of the way, too. "He's gonna... Ouch. That's not gonna go over well."  
  
"I know. I know that. But what else can I do? I can't lose my kids, Mike. I can't."  
  
Michael placed his hand carefully on Chris' shoulder, as if he hadn't just been touching some of the more interesting parts of Chris' body not ten minutes previous. "Hey, it's okay. I understand. Hell, I completely understand."  
  
"It's just..." Chris shook his head, looking Michael in the eye. "It's not  _me._  I'm not saying Edmonton's my first choice of a place to live, but I don't hate living here. I like this team. And the fans are just... They're gonna hate me. Look at how they still feel about Doug Weight, and he left  _five years_  ago. For a better paycheck. I'm leaving because my wife hates it here. Hates their home, Mike. What can be more insulting than that?"  
  
"It's not going to be pretty, that's for sure. But..." Michael hesitated. "Look, you have to do what you have to do. To save your marriage, and your family. Who gives a fuck what the fans think? I've got a pretty good idea where you're coming from on this one. And yeah, I've got it easier because chances are I'm not gonna be here next season no matter what happens. But I've talked to Kristin and while she wants to be closer to home, she knows that it might not happen." He took a breath, trying to decide how to continue. "It wasn't as nice and easy as it sounds, but she's ready to go wherever I end up. Look, what I'm saying is, I'm behind you on this one. For what it's worth."  
  
"It's-" But Chris stopped himself, because he realized that what Michael had just said did mean something to him. Something fairly big. The ache behind his sternum was back in full force. "That means a lot. Coming from you."  
  
Michael nodded. "I'm glad." He sighed a bit, leaning back against Chris' headboard. "I also have to say I'm, uh... I'm sorry to see the season end. I, uh... I enjoyed... Well, this. I'm glad we had this."  
  
Chris gritted his teeth against the surge of feeling inside him. This hadn't been part of their plan. In fact, it was contrary to their deal. They weren't supposed to have feelings, they weren't supposed to get attached. And he hadn't thought he'd developed anything more than feelings of friendship and trust. But apparently he was wrong. And he wasn't the only one. "Yeah," he said lamely, still sitting forward and away from Michael, glad he didn't have to try and force an appropriate expression. "I'm glad, too."  
  
The words came out badly, not quite sincere, though not for the reasons Michael probably thought. But the sound of it translated and Michael sat up abruptly. "I should go." He was already off the bed in search of his pants when Chris looked up at him. His expression was hard to read, but it was definitely trying unsuccessfully to be something unaffected and calm.  
  
"Hey." Chris moved to the end of the bed, reaching out to touch Michael's elbow.  
  
Michael pulled his jeans the rest of the way on, but then stopped, closing his eyes. "You don't have to say anything," he said, turning his head to look Chris in the eye.  
  
"Yeah, actually. I do." He slid his hand down to Michael's wrist, hooking it and pulling Michael to sit next to him on the bed. "I know I said I wanted this to stay uncomplicated. And I meant that. I didn't want to get involved with you, outside of sex. And we managed to do a pretty good job of that, I think. But I..." He sighed heavily, annoyed with his own inability to admit what he was feeling. "What I'm saying is that I... It didn't go how I wanted it to."  
  
Michael shook his head. "Chris, really. I get it. I knew when this started, it was gonna be hard to not feel  _something_ for you, but I... You know, I really tried not to. It was just easier said than done, I guess."  
  
"You're not listening to me. I'm not trying to make you feel better, Mike. I'm trying to tell you..." He took a deep breath. "You're not alone. As far as that goes."  
  
Michael looked a bit stunned and he exhaled, his chest hollowing. "You're not fucking with me, are you."  
  
"No."  
  
"Well, fuck."  
  
"I don't think it should change anything," Chris finally said, his tone melancholy. "I mean, as far as ending this now."  
  
"No, I agree," Michael answered immediately. "We have to end it. I just..." He shrugged. "It's gonna be a little harder, knowing that you..." He made a useless gesture with his hands.  
  
"Would it be easier if you thought I didn't care?"  
  
There was a pause as Michael considered it. "No."  
  
Chris nodded and he turned himself to face Michael more fully, reaching up to take Michael's chin in his hand, kissing him once softly on the lips. When he drew away, he whispered softly against Michael's mouth. "You're a good man, Peca, you know that?"  
  
Michael's expression was an odd collision of annoyance and sorrow and he shook his head. "No, I'm not. I'm a mediocre hockey player, a terrible fucking husband-"  
  
"Shut up," Chris interrupted him. "The only one here allowed to be down on himself is me."  
  
Michael allowed a bit of a smirk as he replied. "Fine." He sat for a moment longer, eyes moving over Chris' face as if committing it to memory. His lips parted like he was going to say something else, but then closed again as he stood, bending to retrieve his discarded shirt from Chris' bedroom floor. He tugged it over his head, and then went to replace his shoes as well, running a hand through his hair when he stood, pulling his glasses out of his pocket. "So, I suppose I'll see you next season. Somewhere."  
  
Chris grimaced, remembering his own undetermined fate, but now also considering Michael's as well. "Yeah, somewhere."  
  
Michael slid his glasses on his face, a gesture of finality, and left Chris sitting alone on the edge of his bed. Chris heard the front door open and then close firmly and he felt some kind of weight lift off him, but also a cold sensation of loneliness settle in his stomach. He'd never thought about how things would finally end, as far as the affair he'd been having with Michael. He supposed he would just leave, and it would just be finished without any pomp or attention paid to the fact that it was over. And really, the way it happened hadn't been much more than that, but there was an underlying farewell in this, their last, unplanned rendezvous.  
  
After that, things went exactly as planned. Pat Morris, Chris' agent, contacted Kevin Lowe once Chris was safely out of eat shot, rumours leaked, the ire of the fans rose immediately. He returned to the United States to find his name tarnished and involved in a lot of nasty gossip, mostly as he expected. His trade went through - to Anaheim - and even though he had the chance to put things straight, to let the city that cheered him and the fans that loved him down more easily, in the end he backpedaled, and ruined his only shot. Back in Saint Louis, taking stock of the last few weeks of his life, he felt almost as miserable as he did before it all started. Even with his wife in the other room, and his kids playing in their backyard, he felt gutted, isolated, and guilty. When he heard his cellphone beep, his guard went up immediately, ready to face more accusations, to field questions he couldn't answer. Instead, all he received was a text message, sent from a number his phone didn't recognize with a 716 area code. It read, simply, "See you in Anaheim."


End file.
